YOU’RE NOT AT HOME

            Night is falling. They sky turned dark right before your eyes. You didn’t even notice it walking so fast in the rain. You can’t wait to get home. Your shoes are soaked through and the raincoat barely protects you, not to mention the flimsy umbrella you borrowed from your friend before leaving his house. Your wife will be angry when you get home and drip water all over the floor.

            You’re not at home for dinner. She’s probably packing back and forth, from the dining-room to the kitchen and back again. She’s probably looking out the window every two minutes. You’re walking as fast as you can but the wind blowing against you makes for a difficult walk. The umbrella turns inside out every few steps and you have to stop and turn it right side out. You’d be better off without it.

            Night has fallen. The streetlights are on and the wet sidewalks shine beautifully. You’ve always liked the reflection of streetlights in water puddles on sidewalks at night. From the time you were a boy of 5 or 6 you begged your mother to let you go out when it rained at night. She never let you. The woman was tough.

            You’re not at home yet. A few blocks separate you from your house, your wife, your children. You slow down and toss the umbrella in a trash bin by the alley and bury your hands in your pockets. Rain falls on your head and drips down your face, your nose. You walk slower and slower, getting thoroughly wet. When you get home your wife will surely yell at you. “Where were you? Why are you all wet? Why didn’t you take a taxi? You’re so inconsiderate.”

            You slow down, walk by your front door, and keep walking. You see your wife looking out the window. You keep walking.